


The Imprecision of Language

by somuchcloser



Category: Original Work, Porn RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchcloser/pseuds/somuchcloser





	The Imprecision of Language

 

I rub my fingers along the slight indentation left by the metal cuffs. He can be rough sometimes, but he never means to hurt me. He doesn't hurt me. It's different when the pleasure edges on pain. It's not harmful.  
  
It can be healing.  
  
I still don't know how to act sometimes. Most of the time, it all comes naturally. We goof around, we tease. We smoke. We drink. We fuck. But then there are moments when it feels too dangerous. It's not the rope. It's not that look in his eyes when he takes me, hard. Sometimes I feel like I let myself feel too much, and that... that's when things can cut too deeply.  
  
I'm brushing my teeth in the bathroom when he finds me. I love sucking him, but I can't stand waking up to the taste of old cum. Disgusting. Fuck what other people say, there's nothing sexy about jizz when it gets cold and nasty. He'll sleep in the wet spot if it comes down to it. I'm washing off.  
  
We say nothing as I turn on the shower, attempting to get the water just right. It's not my shower. This isn't my apartment, even though I  live here. I still spend too long every morning looking for the coffee - the good stuff, the stuff he keeps hidden away in the cupboard, not that Folgers shit.  
  
I climb in and scrub the day off my body. I go over the moments one by one. He says I should stay off Twitter, that there's too much poison on there. He doesn't want me to see the disapproval. The endless opinions. The utter shit that people just spew out like it's their right to fucking judge a stranger.  
  
I recall the handcuffs. The way that he pushed and pulled at my body, and how I just mold to him. My body willingly follows his unspoken commands and sometimes I wish that it didn't. I want to believe that this is real for him the way that it is real for me, but there's no way to know. Who's to say? We can use the same words, but they don't have to mean the same thing. Language is a tool to explain our experiences, and we've had vastly different ones. Love doesn't always mean love.  
  
I hear the slide of the shower curtain and I open my eyes. He gives me that smile again. The real one. His face has been captured by so many lenses but this particular expression I claim for myself.  
  
I move aside to share the water and he catches my hand, holding it close to his face so he can study the red lines. “Was I too rough?”  
  
I shake my head.  
  
“We don't have to use them again,” he says.  
  
“I'm the one who picked them out.”  
  
“We don't have to use them,” he repeats.  
  
I shrug, and he stares at me in a way that verges on unnerving. When he's done looking his share, he grabs the shampoo and pours it on his hand. His fingers move along my scalp and I smell the shampoo and his body, still dirty from sweat and sex. My nostrils flare and I breathe in. When he's washed all the suds away he pulls me to him and this hug is full of so many different words and so many different meanings but he says nothing.  
  
When we go to bed he pulls me close and we wrap around each other. He grabs for my hand and interlaces our fingers. I know he's told me that he loves me but I have heard it before, from other boys who left, and language is too inexact. He kisses my lips and his free hand touches the creases on my forehead, willing them to relax and smooth. He follows the line of my jaw, his fingers tracing down now to shoulder and arm and hip, glancing along my soft cock and the inside of my thigh. Another kiss, and he closes his eyes and sighs. I watch his breathing slow and his muscles relax. I watch him fall asleep.  
  
I want love to mean what I've always thought it should mean. I want forever to mean forever. His hand is in mine, and the lines along my wrist are gone. It's all smooth. Relaxed. Vulnerable flesh and the maddening imprecision of language.  
  
I close my eyes and fall asleep.


End file.
